Jerry walked down the steps. It had been a hard day. Working as a bookkeeper in a furniture store was not exactly exciting. It was a few extra shekels. Making ends meet in 1976 was not easy. So $50 is worth a day’s boredom and frustration. It was just a pain in the ass to trek all the way out to Forest Hills and then back to Borough Park. But at least it was a straight shot on the F Train.
The platform was deserted as usual. Even though it was a cold winter’s day it still reeked of urine. The tile walls were covered in graffiti. It had never been this way when he was a kid. People were proud of their neighborhood. They kept things up. Forest Hills was an expensive place as far as those things went. That didn’t spare it. These “artists” came to every station and spray painted their tags everywhere. It made everywhere look like a slum. Maybe they did it so they could feel at home.
The F train pulled into the station. Oh no. It was one of those new R-46 models. Supposedly it was graffiti proof. All hard plastic seats that were easy to scrub unlike the older trains. The only problem was that the doors were locked. So you couldn’t go from car to car. You needed to have an escape route. Everybody knows that. If you weren’t ready you were a victim.
Jerry walked on to the train and put his head down. It was empty at his end of the car. He pulled out his pocket Talmud and prepared to study. He had a long ride and he would have time to be ready to talk with his friends that night.